


On the Final Battle

by rhoswenmahariel (salutationtothestars)



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Blood and Injury, F/M, Friendship, Hopeful Ending, Lowercase, Shorts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-03
Updated: 2014-09-03
Packaged: 2018-02-16 00:01:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2248365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/salutationtothestars/pseuds/rhoswenmahariel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An episodic look at Hawke's last night in Kirkwall, and the morning after.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On the Final Battle

* * *

 

hawke’s eyes narrow as the gallows sail into sight. everything’s burning, even miles away from the chantry. light flashes around the circle, the sparking white of electric spells, the heated red and orange of fire. the battle is already raging. hawke did not ask for this war, but she will fight it now that the mages have no choice. turning her head, she looks back at her companions, wondering if they see and feel the same things she does. everyone is preoccupied, cleaning their swords, conversing quietly, watching the skies. only fenris returns her stare, looking up at her from his perch on a crate. at first he looks pinched, pressed by what they’ve done and what they’re going to do. then he smiles. it’s incongruous, and takes her aback at first, but he means it as support – as a comfort. she loves him for it, and smiles, too.

 

* * *

  

it seems a little silly, to have these quick conversations when templars are beating down their doors. but everyone is doing it, all over the room – handshakes, tears, final embraces. her friends are already talking amongst themselves, saying any goodbyes they think they might have to, so hawke slowly makes her way through them all. it breaks her heart, to know they stand here with her – for her – but as aveline says, her hand firm on hawke’s shoulder, _it’s worth it_.

 

* * *

 

she can’t think about sebastian too long without feeling an ache in her heart, a pit of fear in her stomach. it hurts, how the brother she cared for spat in her face. how the man who put a memorial up for her mother promised them death, for anders and probably for her as well. it hurts, so she pushes it to the back of her mind. those are thoughts for another day.

 

* * *

  

fenris drags her to his mouth, wrapping himself around her shoulders as though he’s clinging to a lifeline. for a few moments, she forgets where they are, what they’re here to do, focused solely on the way his hand fists into her hair… and then someone clears their throat. hawke pulls away more sharply than she intended, her eyes darting around to take in the way everyone… is staring at them. quite openly. _i know we’re about to die_ , carver says, his smile an awkward tilt, _but i don’t think that’s the last thing i want to see._ hawke rolls her eyes. fenris snorts, his cheeks and nose a little flushed. he glances away, down at the floor, and then she realizes – that’s the first time he’s kissed her in public.

ignoring carver’s groans, she takes one of fenris’s hands and ducks to catch his gaze. _hey_ , she says. she pulls him gently towards her and rests her forehead against his. they close their eyes, and they breathe, and the world around them goes soft once more.

 

* * *

 

_when you look for me_ , bela says, _i’ll be fighting at your side_. hawke doesn’t doubt her sincerity, and doesn’t plan on looking at all. it turns out, she doesn’t have to. when the first templar charges the door, sword brandished and already stained in blood, isabela shouts a war cry and breaks rank. she darts past orsino and hawke, blades flashing, leaving everyone else blinking back surprise. grinning, hawke readies her staff and takes off after her.

 

* * *

 

standing over what used to be orsino, the bloody pulp of bodies dripping off her knife and squelching under her boots, hawke breathes deep and remembers. she thinks about the fear on her father’s face one night when they thought they’d been discovered, the way he kissed her mother and made her promise that no matter what happened to him, no matter what he did, she would run. she thinks about merrill, and the mistakes she’s made, the people she’s lost. she thinks about anders, grumbling almost to himself, _what is it with elves and blood magic?_ biting back the bile in her throat, hawke bends down and retrieves orsino’s abandoned staff. it would be so much easier to blame the first enchanter, to hate him, to accuse him of invalidating the cause. but she can’t. she just feels miserable and sick. so much of her life has been out of her hands – she never wanted to become a mage, or a champion, or a leader. but this time…

taking a shaky breath, hawke drops her staff on the ground and straps orsino’s in its place. this time, she’s taking charge.

 

* * *

  

in the heat of battle, meredith reaches out too quick to be stopped and thrusts her palm into fenris’s face. hawke freezes. fenris drops his sword to grapple with her, trying to pry himself from her crushing grip. something happens, the red lyrium sparks, and with an ear-splitting roar, a wave of light courses along fenris’s skin. he goes limp.

_how does it feel, champion_ , meredith bellows, _to know i hold the life of one you love in my hands?_

before hawke can move, before anyone can go to his rescue, meredith thrusts her arm forward and pins him, driving her sword straight through his shoulder as though he’s little more than a rag doll. he hangs, blood spattering on the ground from the wound and from his mouth. hawke feels her own blood pulse through her veins, singing for vengeance and retribution and death. it would be so easy, in this moment, while meredith leers up at fenris – it would be so easy to take the knife to her own palm, to take advantage of meredith’s distraction and overwhelm her with power. but her mother, the elf woman, orsino, marethari, how many others? she can’t. she can’t.

 

* * *

 

when fenris hits the ground, bouncing once and smearing his blood on the stone, hawke resists the urge to run to him. instead, she cries, _anders!_ and hopes that he understands, that he is willing. thankfully, he nods and turns, and a few moments later she catches the distinct aroma of a healing spell, pulsing through the air. meredith parries a blow from aveline, jabs her elbow into carver’s nose, shields herself from arrows on several sides, and meets hawke’s stare with a bloodthirsty grin. _you’ll pay for that_ , hawke shouts, charging her with the staff in one hand and her knife in the other. _i’ll kill you._ meredith laughs, an eerie echo that bounces off columns, ruined statues, the blood-stained ground. she spreads her arms, begging hawke to try. hawke pauses briefly to throw a quick spell, but she isn’t intending to beat her with magic anymore – it feels too impersonal. slitting her throat will serve her much better.

 

* * *

  

_maker_ , meredith screams, voice rattling and wheezing from the strain, _aid your humble servant!_ her body glows brighter, covered in blood that isn’t hers; her eyes are a bottomless red. hawke has never truly believed in the maker, but in that moment, she feels what she thinks might be religious terror.

 

* * *

  

something cracks. the idol explodes. meredith twists, howling, contorting – and the echoes bounce her shrieking back into silence.

 

* * *

  

as the templars emerge, looking on their former commander with horror, hawke clutches her staff and sets her jaw. they have no evidence that this fight is done. she does not trust cullen to let them go. the sound of muffled groaning startles her into wheeling around, even as a woman breaks file to run forward and drop to her knees in front of meredith's statue.

it’s fenris. anders has him braced against his shoulder, easing him carefully to his feet. he looks pale and drawn, still feeling at least some of the pain, but he is alive, and if the look on anders’s face is any way to judge, he will heal. her heart leaps into her throat, and she feels like crying.

turning back to face her enemies, she holds herself a bit taller and narrows her eyes, begging cullen to try something. he doesn’t. with a barely perceptible nod, he grants her the freedom she would have gladly stolen. hawke backs away, refusing to break his gaze until she meets anders and takes fenris’s arm over her own shoulder. they storm down to the docks, all of them, in perfect silence, and after they find donnic, they quit the city together.

 

* * *

 

isabela, as she has said quite loudly several times, has no idea where she’s going. this suits all of them fine for the moment, but considering they’re fleeing a city that’s literally burning to the ground, on a stolen ship, they’ll have to make up their minds sometime. as it is, bela sails them into the slowly encroaching dawn, and mutually they all seem to decide they’ll worry about a destination in the morning. hawke sits up against the side of the ship, fenris tucked into her neck, and takes deep, slow breaths. his vest is gone, replaced by bandages all around his upper chest and left arm. those will need to be checked soon. curious, hawke leans forward a bit to see where anders got off to – and finds him, alone, twisting his hands together and staring back at the mess he left behind.

everyone’s avoided him all night. she doesn’t blame them. as much as she’s grateful for his healing, and loves the man who’s been her friend for years, she doesn’t think she’ll be able to forgive him soon either. still, even as she watches, merrill approaches him slowly and puts a hand on his shoulder. he reflexively goes to shrug it off, and then stops himself. they talk, saying what, hawke can only guess. it soothes something in her heart to watch. closing her eyes, she leans against fenris gingerly and goes back to focusing on breathing – him in, her out.

 

* * *

  

_well_ , varric says later, voice rasping against the quiet. _we did it_. nearly everyone is asleep, exhausted, passed out wherever they had been sitting at the time. only bela is still standing, proud and tall at the helm. hawke had offered to relieve her, even for a little while, but she refused on the grounds that with hawke’s luck, she’d crash them into a templar convoy.

tilting back her head, hawke stares up at the few stars still visible in the brightening sky. _did what?_ she asks. _destroyed a city and its entire structure of government? slaughtered more people in one night than we’ve probably done in our lives? personally signed our own death warrants?_

varric laughs. _that too, i suppose._ he goes quiet, contemplative. hawke wonders if he thinks about what – who – they’ve left behind, the people they’ll never see again. the places that are probably now cinders. it’s all that’s been plaguing her thoughts.

_what did you mean?_

fenris stirs briefly, making a pained noise in his sleep, and settles down again without opening his eyes. varric watches her soothe him, passing a minor healing spell through her fingers to his shoulder.

_we survived_ , he says simply.

 

* * *

 

hawke looks around, takes stock of the friends that surround her, who would have given their lives for her and her cause. she feels the way the ship rolls under her body, carrying them away to an uncertain future and a lifetime of running. no home anymore, barely enough coin to last them all a week – but they’re together.

_we’ve survived_ , she agrees, and says nothing more for a fairly long time.

 

* * *

 

**Author's Note:**

> Based heavily on my second playthrough of my canon Hawke, during which I took notes on funny things that happened by accident or things that caught my attention. The forehead touch, for example, was the result of both Hawke and Fenris going through their idle animation cycles at the same time while standing close enough. Everything else comes from my imagination or interpretation.


End file.
